The wet heat and the slow drag of her tongue send a jolt from the base of my spine to the back of my skull. She takes me deeper, her lips stretching around me, her hand working what her mouth can't reach in long, firm strokes. The rhythm she sets is unhurried and devastating, her tongue pressing flat against the underside on every upstroke before swirling over the head. She hollows her cheeks and sucks hard enough that my vision whites out at the edges, and the sounds coming out of me are ones I barely recognize. My fingers tangle in her hair, not guiding, just holding on, because my whole body is wound so tight that I'm shaking.
"Sunny." Her name comes out strangled. I tug her hair gently. "You need to stop or this is going to be over before it starts."
She releases me with a final stroke of her tongue that makes my vision blur, and the look she gives me is pure satisfaction. I haul her up and flip her beneath me.
I reach for my jeans on the floor and fumble through the back pocket until my fingers close around the condom. She watches me, flushed and breathing hard, and the impatience in her expression makes my hands clumsy. I tear the wrapper with my teeth, roll it on, and settle between her thighs.
"Get back here," she whispers, and pulls me down.
When I press inside her, we both go still. She's tight and hot around me, and the sensation hits so hard that I dropmy forehead to hers and just breathe. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, and the small, broken sound she makes against my jaw nearly shatters me.
"God, Sunny."
Her hips shift beneath me, a slow, grinding motion that sends a jolt straight up my spine. We find our rhythm, slow and deep at first, and I watch her face as every thrust registers, her lips parting, her eyes going hazy, her head tipping back against the pillow. I pull almost all the way out and drive back in, and the cry she gives me is so raw that it strips whatever restraint I had left.
The pace builds as her legs wrap around me and her heels dig into the small of my back, pulling me deeper. Her nails rake down my shoulders and the sting mingles with the pleasure until I can't separate them. She tells me exactly what she wants,harder, right there, don't you dare stop, and hearing those words from the woman who measures every syllable she speaks pushes me to the edge.
I reach between us and press my thumb against her clit, circling in time with my thrusts, and her whole body locks tight around me. Her breath comes in short, broken gasps against my neck, desperate and raw and nothing like the composed woman who handed me a scrub brush this morning.
"Come for me, Sunshine," I whisper against her ear.
She shatters with a cry that singes every nerve I have, her body clenching around my cock in waves that drag me over the edge with her. I bury my face in her neck and let go, and for a long, shuddering moment there is nothing but the heat of her skin and her heartbeat hammering against mine.
Afterward, we lie tangled on the white sheets, her head on my chest and my arm wrapped around her shoulders. The lamp casts its warm glow across the room, and her fingers trace idlepatterns on my skin while our breathing finds its way back to something steady.
"So," she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "You can fix pipesanddo that."
I laugh, and the rumble of it shakes her. "I'm a man of many talents."
"Apparently so." She props her chin on my chest, a teasing twinkle in her eye. "I have a confession."
"I'm listening."
"When Isabelle told me an investor wanted to shadow the winemaking department, I pictured some geeky finance guy in pressed khakis and loafers who'd ask a few questions, take a selfie in the barrel room, and never come back. I had the whole speech ready about how winemaking isn't a spectator sport." She traces a line down my chest. "Then you strolled in with dirt on your boots and started asking me about barrel aging like you actually cared."
"And?"
"Now I don't know what I'd do if you stopped showing up."
I tighten my arms around her because I don't trust my voice yet. She didn't have to say that. Every instinct she has probably told her not to. And the fact that she told me anyway, here and now, with her guard stripped down and her body snuggled warm against mine, means more than she'll ever know.
"You won't have to find out," I tell her.
She tucks herself against my side, and her fingers lace through mine on the mattress. The quiet between us is peaceful and warm.
I chuckle softly. "I can't believe you pictured me in khakis."
"Pressed khakis and loafers, Hayden. I had you pegged for a guy who'd ask about the ROI on screw caps."
"I don't even own khakis."
"I know that now."
The room is quiet, the evening dark beyond the window. The streetlight outside casts a thin line of light across the quilt at the foot of the bed. Her breathing is slowing, and the tension she carries in her shoulders every day, the armor she puts on before she walks into the world, has dissolved entirely.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand, careful not to shift her from my chest, and type a message to Oscar.
Won't be home tonight. Everything's fine. Please let Gran know.
